


Once More, With Feeling

by sohardtosay



Series: Swan Song [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: A shitload of banter, Banter, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, GTA!verse, M/M, Masochism, Moral Dilemmas, Murder Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Ryan also really likes to kill people, Self-Harm, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohardtosay/pseuds/sohardtosay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray likes pain, Ryan loves to kill, and Geoff thinks they work well together.</p>
<p>It's a lethal combination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Space in Between

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately proceeding the first part of the series, and explores the budding relationship between Ray and Ryan (also, side-note, sad to hear that Ray's leaving but happy that he's doing what he loves!)
> 
> I've been writing this for about two weeks now, but I'm sure it's _riddled_ with spelling/grammar errors. Let me know about those if you find any!
> 
> Trigger warning for self-harm; this story is not kind about self-esteem or anything morally sound (but it's the GTA!AU, so I doubt anyone had that expectation, anyways.)

After they get back to Jack’s, Geoff and Jack are passing out celebratory beers.

Ryan declines along with Ray, which makes Geoff, eyes already glassy, go, “Guess you’re not the only sober guy in the room anymore, Ray.”

Ray grunts. “Guess not.”

“That’s polite of you, not having him feel left out,” Gavin butts in, unsurprisingly—beer makes him talkative.

Ryan smiles without touching his eyes. “Hardly. I’ve been sober my entire life.”

“ _Really?_ ” Gavin lets out a schoolgirl giggle, and tips back another Corona.

Talkative, and dumber than usual.

Ray crosses the room to Jack’s recliner as they all talk, perching on the arm. Geoff has a bottle of lemonade out on a table for him that he can’t fathom stomaching.

He can still feel the cool handle of the knife in his hand as he slit Trevor’s throat.

“You okay, dude?” Michael asks.

Ray eyes Ryan by the sofa, talking to Jack. Their voices are nearly identical, so he can’t tell for the life of him who says what.

“What are you thinking?” Michael asks, quieter. “He trustworthy?”

“I’m still deciding.”

“Geoff told me,” Michael continues. “How many fucking times did he stab Trevor?”

“A shitload.”

“God. Over the top fucker, isn’t he?”

Ray only _wishes_. But he doesn’t have the nerve to tell Michael that Ryan took Trevor back to his hotel.

If Michael is already suspect about Ryan, he might lose his shit if he heard that.

“Well done,” Geoff says to Ryan, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’re officially a part of the Fake AH Crew— _how do you feel, Ryan Haywood?_ ”

Ryan smiles coolly. “Pretty damn good.”

“Fucking great." Geoff takes a long swallow of beer. "You’re gonna be a valuable member, I can tell already.”

Ryan nods, but there his eyes go again, locking onto Ray’s. When their gazes meet, Ryan smiles.

They’ll either be best friends, or Ray’s gonna wind up with a restraining order.

Awesome.

——

For as long as he's been under, Ray has hated killing people.

Since the first moment he pulled a trigger, Ray’s always had a deep, uncomfortable coiling at his core—to remind himself that, even though there’s a dead body on the other side of his trigger, he’s still alive and still has the ability to hate what he’s done. Part of his initiation, all that time ago, was to kill someone, and it left him shaking and sweating in the back of Michael's car as he drove Ray back to Geoff. In his line of work, being too attached makes it hell on earth. 

Ray makes the mistake of thinking that time with Trevor is an isolated incident, until he and Ryan have a mission together again. 

It’s a deal gone bad. The guy is cocky and Ray knows the instant he opens his stupid, loud mouth that he’s gonna die. Silence equals survival in their world.

But then, he shoots the guy perfectly, like always—right between the eyes—and that's it. That's all. Nothing inside of him moves or stirs. He's usually sick, fucking _sick_ over killing someone, and God. He should be. He _should_. Even if it _is_ some lowlife, even if he _did_ give them mouth—even if he was practically begging for death—he’s still a fucking _person._

Ray waits for it, but the inside of him yawns with emptiness.

On the boardwalk, he startles himself when his hand, clenched into a tight fist, starts to bleed. Uncurling it, he sees that his nails broke the skin—barely, but the thin half-circles still bubble with blood.

His heart pounds faster staring at it, and he brings an unconscious hand to his stomach.

Deep down, he knows why he misses it. Why he just _needs_ that hesitation there. He knows damn well.

“You okay?”

Ray grunts. “Fine.” The fabric of his pockets are rough against the cuts as he reaches into his jeans.

Ryan nods, the wind blowing a piece of hair back from his forehead. He puts his mask back on as Ray shakes a smoke out of his pack. 

“Whatever you’re going through,” Ryan says, “you can handle it, right?” 

Ray isn’t even surprised that Ryan can read him so well. 

“Yeah.”

The only sound after that is the pulsing whisper of waves, beating against the distant shore.

——

It started when Ray was fifteen.

He picked his stomach because there wasn’t a chance in hell he could hide it on his wrists. He wouldn’t be wearing a bikini any time soon, and he didn’t want to be doomed to a lifetime of long sleeves in Southern California. Everything was planned right down to where he did it and what he used—like a fucking surprise party or something.

It scared him the first time, but in his stupid teenage head he thought it would also be the last. That he had it under control. That he did it just to _see_ , not that he _wanted_ the pain or actually _liked_ it. 

The urge was gone for so long that he thought it was over.

_If only._

——

It turns out what happened with Trevor wasn’t an isolated incident at all. For either of them.

Because Ryan has this thing where he _really_ , really likes to kill people.

Ray knows it. He can see it in Ryan’s eyes, every time they go on missions together (Geoff seems to have this _idea_ that they “work well together.” Psychotic prick.) His surface is as unruffled and collected as a pond, but just below lurks an animal, caged by the dark blue of his eyes—and it sends fucking _shivers_ down Ray’s spine when he sees Ryan kill and not want to stop. Ryan’s pretty dramatic for a guy who takes the work so seriously, and what a show it is when he’ll start panting and his pupils will blow out, his hands white-knuckling his knife, like he’s about to explode. Ray feels _vulgar_ watching it.

The other four already have ideas about Ryan; he kills so easily, so senselessly and mindlessly and _eagerly_ , that it’s so easy to miss it if you’re not looking, and why would they? To them, Ryan’s just one more scary motherfucker (and hey, they’re not exactly wrong); Jack tags along for one mission, for example, and he doesn’t do the double-take Ray does when Ryan, fresh from blowing a hole in someone’s chest, closes his eyes and grits his teeth. It’s not something they care about.

But God.

Ray sure as shit does.

He watches Ryan more closely than he realizes, and soon it ingrains as routine. From afar, the killing is blind and meaningless, but up close, Ryan almost strains for their blood. When they give him lip, Ray knows the minute the deal is about to go sour just by how Ryan’s fingers twitch. He’s an addict. He’s a goddamn murder addict. He hungrily stares at the people who try to beg, and he has to pull himself away after they’re dead. And it’s not long before Ray thinks to himself, _Ryan would hurt me._ No—Ryan would fucking _destroy_ him.

And then, it’s even less before there’s this itch inside of him that whispers:

_Let him._

——

For weeks, the conversations with Ryan are all banter.

Ryan doesn’t talk unless what he’s saying is important, and Ray’s too deeply entrenched in his own head these days, so their missions are mostly filled with silence. Which is fine by Ray; he hardly has anything interesting to say, so they develop this language that transcends anything they could ever say using words, where he’ll look over at Ryan or Ryan will nudge him and that alone speaks volumes. They hardly know each other, but here Ray is feeling like he understands Ryan better than anyone else in the Crew.

Scary shit.

Sometimes, Ryan will look like he _wants_ to say something, but doesn’t. Ray has no doubt that he can be talkative—and why wouldn’t he be, when he’s so fucking _good_ at it—and is surprised that Ryan doesn’t go off more, especially after a mission where they’re both panting and sweating and hyped up on adrenaline. And Ray _hates_ to think it’s for his benefit, even if it’s painfully obvious that is. He hates to think that Ryan might actually _understand._

Ryan doesn’t talk about himself much after he tells Ray about his wife, which is charming, because it means that Ray doesn’t even know Ryan’s favorite food, but he knows where Ryan got the scar on his thigh.

(And, okay, Ray can _guess_ Ryan’s favorite food: Hot Tamales, considering that’s all he’s ever actually seen Ryan eat. But _still._ )

The silence persists for a comfortable couple of weeks, until a shootout one night, which ends with Ray nursing a graze on his thigh and both of them hiding out behind a public park bathroom—where Ryan pants out, “I have an Xbox and _Resident Evil_ back at my place.” Just out of nowhere. But nothing gets Ray’s attention faster.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Ryan cracks a smile. “Not my original intention. But if it’s working, I could continue.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Just for future reference,” Ryan says, hands up in surrender. His face softens. “How’s the leg?”

“Hurts,” Ray grunts, hobbling onto his feet. “But I’ll live.”

“Yeah.” Ryan nods sagely. “You dying would be pretty inconvenient.”

Ray raises an eyebrow—a habit he's already picked up from Ryan that he’s 100% unwilling to admit in spite of what Michael and Gavin insist. “How sentimental.”

“I _know._ That’s the most emotional I’ve gotten about death in years.” Ryan makes a face like he sucked on a lemon. “Leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.”

Ray palms the wall, looking for a crutch. Ryan watches measuredly. “There’s a bench nearby,” he says. “We can sit so you can rest.”

Ray nods. “We weren’t followed?”

Ryan cocks back his gun. The mask is off, exposing a complicated—if not a little horrifying—arrangement of red, black, and white facepaint. It’s so much more intricate than the greasepaint he lined his eyes with when Ray first saw his face.

“No. But even if we were, I’ll take care of it. You regain your strength.”

“Ryan,” Ray huffs. “I can shoot.”

Ryan cracks a cocky grin. “Debatable.” Ray reaches out to punch him, and stumbles, which makes him look idiotic and makes Ryan chuckle. Never a good combination.

They walk—well, Ray mostly limps—to the nearest bench, which sits along a path leading to the basketball courts. The blood is boiling hot and seeps clean through Ray’s best jeans, and it’s his fault, to be fair, for taking his favorite pants on a mission. Whatever. Not like he doesn’t have the money for another favorite pair of pants.

Ryan eyes Ray’s leg. “How deep is it?”

“I thought you hated small talk,” Ray says with a minute wince.

“This is hardly small talk.”

“It’s skin-deep, Ryan. I’ll be fine, I swear.”

Ryan keeps staring at Ray’s thigh, long enough that Ray can feel the added layer of heat, and he hits Ryan’s arm.

“No undressing the injured person with your eyes.”

Ryan breathes out a laugh. “Ray, you seem to think I’m always very purposeful.”

“So eye-fucking my leg was a coincidence?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” Ryan asks, tilting his head.

“Long answer?” Ray replies with a smirk. “No.”

Ryan smiles. “Well then.”

“Unless the same coincidence happens over and over and over again.” Ray pauses. “And over and over.”

Ryan utters another, louder laugh.

They fall quiet, and Ray thinks that’s it—their conversations have ended on less before. Across the grass, there’s about a dozen or so teenagers in huge jerseys and wifebeaters playing ball, and some dudes on the bench hyping the shit out of them. It’s a mad scene, even at a distance.

But then.

The insidious, nasty part of Ray’s brain guides his fingers to the graze’s mouth.

Tonight, over twenty men took them on. Ray shot half of them. Ten. That’s ten lives he took. And ten instances where the inside of his body remained completely still.

The darkness whispers, _You deserve—_

In half a breath, Ray blurts out, “How do you kill people, Ryan?” His hands are trembling on his thigh.

Ryan blinks, because that’s about as much as he can do in terms of conveying surprise. “I don’t think I need to tell you that, since you’re doing a hell of a job of it.”

“No,” Ray says, heartbeat picking up. Is he? Is he doing a hell of a job? So much that Ryan’s actually _noticed_? “How do you do it and not _care_?”

Ryan shrugs. “Why should I? People die all the time, everywhere, and no one fucking cares about them. Death’s more natural than life itself. Why should I feel bad for giving them what they’re destined to eventually have?”

“I always feel sick to my stomach.” _Or I did._ But Ryan doesn’t need to know that. Ray hasn’t talked this much about himself in years; the alien territory makes his palms sweat. “Like, always. It’s like a fucking reflex.”

“Are you asking me how to get rid of it?”

“No.”

“Then…?” Ryan prompts.

Ray shrugs. “I dunno. I just kinda—I dunno.” It sounds like the world’s biggest cop-out, and already Ryan’s eyes are sorting through ways to respond, so Ray blurts, “Why do you like it so much?”

Ryan lets out a soft chuckle. “Someone’s been paying attention.”

Ray falters, because that low, scratchy voice could very well mean that he’s inches from having his goose cooked.

“Why do I enjoy it?” Ryan muses, looking out toward the grass. “I’ve never really thought about it, if I’m honest with you.”

“Never?”

“Nope.” Ryan glances at him, mouth punctuated with a small smirk. “Why? Should I have?”

Ray scrunches up his face. “Well...isn’t it kinda fucking _weird_ that you’re always like, sporting a chub after you kill someone?”

Ryan rears back his head to laugh, and Ray looks away. God knows whatever fucking possessed him to ask that.

“Do you know what the best high in the world is, Ray?”

Ray shrugs. “I’ve heard weed laced with coke is pretty tight.”

“Nah,” Ryan chuckles—the quiet, dangerous sound again. He leans forward; his voice is soft. “The best high in the world is choking a girl out while you fuck her and feeling her dying body spasm around your dick.” He pauses, like he’s seriously considering what he’s about to say. “Or a guy. I’m not picky.”

Ray stares at him. Ryan’s smile is genuine and completely unwavering. Across the park, the basketball bench kids howl in unison as one of their friends dunks on another dude.

Ray coughs. “That’s fucked up,” he croaks.

“I know.” Ryan’s eyes glitter. “But you asked.”

“I did.” 

Ryan smiles, leaning back against the bench. “Don’t think everything needs a reason, Ray. Shit happens, all the time, for no fucking reason at all—just because that space was empty and inviting said shit to occur. Like why I’m ‘sporting a chub’ after I kill, or why your stomach hurts after you do. Is there an explanation? Sure. But does it matter, or change anything?” He shrugs. “Nope.”

“But…” Ray’s tongue feels like sandpaper. “Okay. So. I get what you’re saying. I so get what you’re saying. But you _do_ still agree that it’s really fucked-up and creepy that you basically have a confirmed murder _kink._ ”

Ryan musters up a shit-eating grin. “Oh yeah. It’s weird as shit.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Ray mutters, and Ryan just looks so monumentally _pleased_ with himself. “I’ve seen a lot, but that’s a first.”

“I don’t know why you’re sitting me judging there when you have the exact opposite—a complete aversion to murder. I mean,” Ryan says, cocking his head (and he would look like a confused puppy if he was anyone else), “if you think about it, who’s in the right profession here?”

“Hey, fuck you.” Ray clips good-naturedly. “I like the money.” 

Ryan laughs—he has a deep, contained laugh that comes from his chest. It’s a nice break from Gavin’s indecipherable squeaks, or Michael’s loud, righteous howling.

“If it means anything, Ray, I think you do a plenty fine job of killing people.”

Ray touches his chest. “Gosh, Ry, that’s fucking beautiful.”

“Oh, Ray,” Ryan coos, “anything to thaw that icy heart of yours.”

“You could always kill me. I heard that gets you off.”

“Really? I might need to fire my publicist—I mean, it’s true and all, but that’s not the kind of thing you tell the media.”

——

And nothing is solved, and technically, all Ray got from the conversation was that Ryan gets boners from shooting people and that Ray’s even number than he initially thought, but— _God_ —

Ryan has this ability to make him just _forget_.

——

Ignorance is bliss—until it isn’t.

Ray knows he’s fucked when he comes home one night after dicking around with Michael and Gavin and heads straight for the bathroom, just like before. And even simply standing there, staring at the cabinet beneath the sink, makes his skin _crawl._

He hasn’t wanted the pain in years.

Given, for years, he didn’t _need_ it because his stomach stirred unpleasantly every time a human life was lost before him—just enough to keep him hating himself. And it’s gone now.

“It’s part of the job,” he murmurs aloud to himself another night, in the dark. The silence of his apartment answers. “We kill people. This is what we do.”

But it disturbs him even more to think that he’s growing _accustomed_ to the slaughter. The dull ache was, at the very least, a reminder that he was still _human_ , no matter how high his body count. Now all he feels is a haunting emptiness—his mind reaching into space where something once used to be.

He tries blaming Ryan for a bit. But that just feels childish.

(Not to mention it’s an admission to any potential power Ryan holds over him, and that just won’t do.)

——

Another fun fact: Ryan _really_ likes explosives.

He seemed the type, but Ray doesn’t realize how much he concurs until they’re fleeing from the cops one night and there’s about six cruisers behind them and they’ll have a chopper on their ass soon if Ray can’t take them out.

“Fucking bulletproof glass,” he mutters, reloading a third time. A bullet whizzes through the blown-out back window, and he takes out the cop shooting. “It’s not working, Ryan. The windshields and tires are bulletproof.”

“They finally wised up, huh?” Ryan checks the rearview, then swerves off of the main road and off-roads it until they hit gravel. If it was anyone else driving, Ray would have cracked his skull on the ceiling—he almost does anyway.

“Shithead,” he huffs once they’re back on smooth ground, “some of us are trying not to fucking _die_ back here.”

“Fair enough.” Behind them, a cruiser jumps the ditch that separate the back road from the brush and hits the pavement. Its siren warbles. “Goddamnit,” Ryan says mildly. “We’re never gonna outrun them like.”

“Got anything bigger than an AR-15?” Ray shoots at the tires, then decides, fuck it, and shoots the annoying-ass siren straight off the top of the car. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“Oh, much.”

“I thought so, too.” Shots ping off the car’s frame, so Ray keeps at it. “Got any other ideas?”

Ryan grins. “How are you with sticky bombs?”

“Dude,” Ray says. A guy pops out of the passenger side, and he takes him out. “My aim is fucking _scary._ ”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan sends a cocky, challenging look into the rearview. “Then prove it.”

And if that isn’t a prepubescent, middle school-esque bait, then Ray doesn’t know what is.

But by God if he doesn’t prove it, about ten perfect times.

And Ray thinks, shit, maybe he was wrong about explosives. Maybe he can grow to love them, too.

——

The next day, echoes of the explosion are all over the news. News anchors howl over the newest criminals to threaten Los Santos.

Someone on CNN refers to Ryan as “The Mad King,” and one look at Ryan’s grinning face tells Ray that the name is here to stay.

——

As it turns out, he _likes_ working with Ryan. But, to be fair to himself, he kind of _has_ to.

Because, over the next couple of months following Ryan’s initiation, Geoff is completely obsessed with the two of them doing missions together. They’re a _thing_ , according to Michael— _whatever_ the fuck that means. If it means Ray losing track of the number of times Ryan shows up in an unmarked car outside his apartment complex, this bigass _smile_ on his face before he slips on the mask, then sure, they’re a thing. They’re the thing-est thing to ever thing. 

The doorman also thinks they’re dating, which is just peaches.

It makes sense, in a way (why Geoff pairs them up, not the dating thing. That, Ray decides, makes _no sense at all._ ) Whereas Ryan emanates a thoroughly savage brutality, he makes it look like he learned it from an etiquette class. Not to mention he’s almost playful about it—and Ray, in contrast, is the very epitome of deadpan. As the hole inside of him grows, he finds himself further bouncing off of Ryan’s big-talk-big-walk flair with malice so bored that it’s fucking _unsettling._

For example: their seventh or eighth job together—might as well be the billionth—they have a shootout when the driver of the getaway truck they’re supposed to jack whips out a Smith and Wesson from his glove compartment. And Ryan, he’s fucking _humming_ as he ambushes the dude and wrestles the gun away, and the guy’s panting and sweating and definitely doesn’t miss the crazed look on Ryan’s face as he wheezes, “Oh God, I’ll do anything please, I’m sorry, please I have a family—” 

“I dunno, Ray,” Ryan says lazily. “What do you think? Let him go?”

Ray is leaned against the bumper of Ryan’s new Zentorno. Old Ray would let the poor asshole go—for God’s sake, he’s _shaking_ , he’s probably inches from pissing his pants—but New Ray looks him in the eye and says, “Nah. He’ll talk.”

The guy lets out a choked sound, and Ryan nods. “Definitely. He’ll probably tell that damn family of his.”

So naturally, the night ended with a body in a ditch and the truck parked at a safehouse.

It’s the first witness they kill. No comment from Geoff.

Ray fights it, too— _God_ , does he fight it—but while his mind longs for the opposite, he feels his mouth wrap around every threatening, merciless syllable so casually. Later, they have a mission in Little Seoul that ends up with a dead _dog_ , for Christ’s sake (an unfortunate accident from a ricochet); even Ryan looks hurt at that, but Ray just reloads and says, “Oh well.”

_Oh. Well._

It’s like he can _feel_ a part of him slowly dying.

And it’s that much worse that Ryan is so exceptionally good at something Ray so desperately wants. It’s that much worse that they’re the perfect balance of different and similar. It’s that much worse that they _play off of each other_ and, sometimes, it’s kind of _fun_ because Ryan is hilarious and fascinating and not that bad of a guy if you can get past the gargantuan body count, psychosis, complete lack of personal space, and potential murder fetish.

It’s just—

It’s shitty. Because Ray actually _likes_ it, so loudly that it drowns out the part of him that fucking _despises_ it. He’s a walking contradiction.

The worst of all is when he watches Ryan, because Ryan is always looking back, even when there’s blood all over his face, and he looks like the prettiest and simultaneously most dangerous on Earth.

Eventually, Ray feels it every time he looks at Ryan, fresh from a kill, his knife drooling with somebody’s last life blood.

_Temptation._

And, oh yeah.

They’re definitely a thing.

——

Three months after Ryan’s initiation, Ray sparks up after a mission.

Honestly, he’s surprised he took this long.

Weed’s one of the only escapes he knows. He doesn’t drink and he tries to keep away from cigarettes, so pot’s the next best thing to keep him busy. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t smoke around Ryan because it risks losing control, and losing control around Ryan is _not_ an option.

The itch is unbearably painful tonight, so Ray fishes out a roach almost unintentionally. Anything to silence his brain for five fucking minutes, what with how his entire body aches for just _one little cut_ and now this weird-ass thing with Ryan.

Almost immediately, it all goes quiet.

Ryan declines, but Ray’s too high to realize that he’s...well, _too high_ , and around _Ryan_ no less. Not that anything matters tonight. They wind up at Ryan’s place, which makes it a thousand times more dangerous, and Ray doesn’t even bat an eye.

“It’s nice,” he says. The grin Ryan cracks says that Ray must sound so fucking out of it, and it makes Ray laugh for a minute straight.

“Anything to drink?” Ryan asks from the kitchen.

“No, sir.” Ray flops backward onto the couch. Even stoned, he can see how _clean_ the place is—it’s almost unnatural. Either he’s too high or the apartment has no smell, and he’s willing to bet it’s the latter. Fucking weird. 

Ryan re-emerges with a Diet Coke, draping his jacket over a dining room chair. “Dude,” Ray says, pointing a lit blunt at Ryan, “do you ever like, actually fucking eat?”

“Well, I need to eat to survive, don’t I?”

Ray shakes his head as he takes a toke. “Nah, dude. I _never_ see you eat, unless it’s those Hot Tamales you eat by the fucking packful.”

“I promise you I do,” Ryan says, mouth twitching with a smile.

“The candy of my people, Ryan,” Ray muses, eyes trained at the ceiling. He rolls the J thoughtfully between his fingers. “I always fucking hated it.”

“Really? That’s too bad.” Ryan takes a sip of his soda. “They’re delicious.”

“Says the guy drinking a Diet Coke.”

Ryan pointedly takes another drink, slurping it like hot coffee. Ray plugs his ears. “Oh God, even the _sound_ of it is disgusting.”

“Just finish the bud, you fucking stoner.”

Ray puts the joint back in his mouth. “Can do.”

“And don’t get ash on my couch. Or floor. Or anywhere.”

“Too late, Neat Freak.”

“Nicknames now, Ray? You’ve cut me so deep.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Anything beats ‘The Mad King.’”

“The Mad King has poise and finesse. Neat Freak is just insulting.”

“And what, like some cartoon-ass name like Mad King isn’t an insult?”

Ryan eyes Ray seriously, suppressing the twitch of his lips. “Finish. The. Bud.”

“ _Yessir_ ,” Ray falsettos. 

They’re quiet for a while. It’s all well and good, but Ray’s not quite sure what possesses him to speak again when he stands up and heads for the kitchen—especially when what he says is so fucking weird.

“Ryan,” Ray says lazily, “you’ll defend me, right? Protect me from all the bad things in the world?”

Lord. He now knows the meaning of “hit the blunt too hard.”

Ryan leans back in his chair, amused. “I don’t need to, Ray.”

Ray stops in front of him. “Promise me, Ry. You’ll be my—” Jesus Christ, even high, he still thinks, _Really? Really. You’re about to say this. You’re about to sound like an eight year old in front of Ryan Haywood._ It makes him smile even wider than he already is.

“ _Safety buddy._ ”

Ryan laughs out loud. “What the fuck is a ‘safety buddy’?”

“It’s you.” Ray grips Ryan’s face between his hands. Their eyes are separated by three or four inches.

Gravely, he says, “Safety. Buddy.”

Ryan smiles—his real smile that softens the edges of his eyes, not the one that makes him look vicious and bloodthirsty—and holy _shit_ , does it do things to Ray. Thank God he’s high.

“Of course, Ray.”

“Bless you,” Ray bellows unnecessarily, going down to the floor and doing a Mission Impossible roll straight into the couch. It has Ryan gripping his face and laughing into his hand.

Ray recovers in time to see Ryan lifting to Diet Coke can to his mouth and sweet _Jesus_ he can actually see Ryan’s tongue hit the rim before he takes a sip. And those _things_ from earlier? Get a run for their goddamn money.

“That can would make an awesome bowl.”

Who the hell knows why he says that, but at least it distracts Ryan’s mouth. 

He glances at it. “Really? You could make a pipe out of this?”

“Hell yeah, son. Give me a safety clip and a lighter and we’re on our fucking way.”

Ryan cracks a smile. “A safety clip from your safety buddy?”

Ray smiles back. “Damn right. _My_ safety buddy and no one else’s. Don’t go around whoring yourself out to poor fuckers that need protection.”

“Of course not, _Daddy._ ”

“Fast learner.” Ray snaps his fingers. “Now do Daddy a favor and pass him the can so he can go to work on it.”

“Ray,” Ryan says, his lips trembling, “while I’d love to see your pipe arts-and-crafts, we’ve already established that I don’t want to smoke tonight.”

Ray cocks his head. The walls behind Ryan jump like a glitch in a video game. “No shit?”

“Yeah. About twenty minutes ago.”

Ray blinks, searching Ryan’s face for a clue of dishonesty—not that he’ll find shit, with how high he is.

Deadpan, he says, “What the fuck was in that weed.”

Ryan laughs again. His eyes are bright and he looks so very, very pretty.

Ray blinks quickly so Ryan blends in with the jumpy wall. Yeah. They’re all the same hallucination. Obviously. _Obviously._

He hasn’t smoked in so long that his tolerance is in the negative numbers. Or something.

“You’re my favorite,” Ryan says. “You know that, Ray?”

“Dude,” Ray says, slightly open-mouthed, “what a fucking coincidence. _Same._ ”

——

When he wakes up, he’s on the couch and Ryan’s in the chair. The can is on the floor beside him.

He’s also awake. His eyes glow with the curtain of sunlight falling on him and the last thing Ray wants, in his current state, is to wake up to Ryan’s way-too-attractive-to-be-that-crazy face. Or that soft smile, or those eyes, and the deep, dark _yearning_ in them.

Ryan clears his throat. One listen to the heaviness in his voice and Ray knows Ryan was up all night. Watching him.

“I’ll be honest: I kind of like Safety Buddy better than the Mad King.”

“Maybe you should tell the press,” Ray says in a croaky voice. It has Ryan letting out the most beautiful laugh. 

And for a second, Ray almost forgets everything.

Almost.

——

Not long after Safety Buddy, Ray finally figures out how one could describe Ryan Haywood, and it really, _really_ disturbs him when he does:

Because he’s pretty. That’s it. He’s a thirty-one year old man and shit, sometimes, he’s fucking _beautiful_. It bothers the shit out of Ray when he figures it out—a deranged psychopath shouldn’t be pretty. He has the face of a soft-spoken college Physics professor, or a dorky golf dad who drives his kids to school in a minivan; his outside should match the madness within his heart, and it _fucking doesn’t_. Like someone didn’t put the pieces together correctly. It’s haunting.

It’s also insanely attractive to Ray, and that’s really the worst part of all. Because he cannot get in with Ryan.

It’s gone from _don’t ask Ryan to cut you open_ to _don’t._ Just. Fucking. Don’t.

_Don’t get involved._

Christ. Ray fucking _knows_ that. It’s been about five months now—there’s no question what Ryan is. The research Gavin sent to his email all those months ago couldn’t even begin to _capture_ him; _reading_ about how psychotic he is doesn’t compare to spectacle of _seeing_ it in person. He’s so graceful, too, almost to the point that it doesn’t even look like killing. He makes knifing someone look like an art form; he takes shots from rooftops with such finesse that Ray can almost hear the Italian opera in the background as bodies drop. And God, Ray hates to think it, because how fucked-up and _wrong_ is it that Ryan’s kinda _beautiful_ when he kills—even when he goes crazy and stabs someone twenty more times than necessary, or when he sets off charges or guns down cops and he’s laughing while he does it like he’s just having so much _fun_. 

And evidently, he’s Ryan’s favorite. Charming.

High or sober, that didn’t even surprise Ray, honestly. Ryan’s been staring at him like he wants a helping of Ray for breakfast since day one, but it’s kind of pissing Ray off that it doesn’t even bother him anymore. Ray’s not blind: Ryan’s good-looking, even with that crazy-ass facepaint he spends an hour putting on, but he’s also utterly terrifying and _not_ the kind of thing to bring home to your parents, or turn to your boss and say, “Guess who’s hitting that!” He doesn’t want to give Geoff a goddamn _heart attack._

Not to mention Ryan’s also a dude and Ray doesn’t even know _where_ to start with that.

He’s always liked girls, but how fucked up is it that that can _change_? Like, at any time? And the guy he just happens to swing for is Ryan “The Mad Fucking King” Haywood? Since when is _that_ shit fair?

Ray tries to breathe through it, and stays afloat for a few more weeks until they hit a convenient store—Ryan’s idea of “taking it easy”, which are Geoff’s instructions for the weekend. It’s the first time Ryan’s not wearing the mask on a mission _ever_ , and it makes sense, honestly; he’s been in the Crew long enough that people know him. If anything, it’ll _benefit_ him to show his face. He has a _rep_...and the face paint’s terrifying enough in its own right.

Too bad seeing Ryan, going in bare-faced and with his hair just long enough that he ties it back, is the opposite of what Ray needs tonight. Because, when Ryan shoots the cashier, he does this thing with his face, two parts hungry and a thousand parts predatory and a million times weirdly hot, and it’s the nail in the goddamn coffin that has Ray trembling on a parking bumper outside afterward and sucking on a cigarette for dear life.

So much for avoiding cigarettes. So much for morality. So much for everything and anything that Ray thought he knew. 

What the fuck is his _deal_? It was bad enough losing basically the last ounce of humanity he had left, but now, really? His wrists feel like they’re full of cactus needles, begging for _something_ (is Ray thirteen again? Feeling like he’s about to burst out of his skin all because Ryan does this really sexual smirking thing after he _murders someone?_ ) So Ray smokes. He also texts Michael about some stupid achievement he got on Saint’s Row last night, but mostly he chain smokes four cigarettes in a row and leaves the smoldering buds all over the pavement. They’re the last thing keeping him from doing something _really_ stupid.

Ryan’s voice: “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ray rasps back.

Ryan sits beside him on the bumper, and their knees nearly touch. “I thought you didn’t smoke anymore.”

If Ray turns, he’ll see Ryan’s face.

And their knees. Nearly. Touch.

“I don’t,” he answers evenly.

Ryan glances at the four butts on the pavement. Ray shakily puts out his current one on the bumper’s concrete, which causes his head to brush Ryan’s hip. A crippling burst of fire shoots up his hand.

Calmly, Ray drops the dead cigarette on the ground.

“Let’s scram,” Ryan says. “Go get dinner or something.” And Ray nods, because to say no would arouse even more suspicion than the Camels littering the pavement. It’s something they do now, after missions—they hang out. They go to each other’s place. They play video games. They see movies. They put thoughts in Ray’s head that shouldn’t be there. Fun stuff like that.

“Sounds good.”

They rise, Ray’s hand firmly in his pockets. The night’s not warm or cold, but a tolerable temperature in the mid-fifties. He’s never sweated more in his life.

“How much did we score?”

Ryan checks his duffel bag. “Fourteen-thirty. That’ll buy at least one meal, I believe.”

“You should probably wipe that off,” Ray says without looking at him.

Ryan cocks his head. “What?”

“The face paint. It’s kinda…” Ray shrugs. “Suspect.”

“Ray,” Ryan laughs. “You can look at me, you know.”

He absolutely cannot. “Okay.” Ray looks into dark, abyssal blue eyes. “The face paint. There. On your face. Not that one. This one. Your face-face, on your face, on your head, just above your neck, with the nose, eyes, ear, and mouth. Here.”

He pushes a very serious finger into Ryan’s forehead.

Ryan snorts, picking up his shirt by the neck to wipe his head. He also exposes his stomach and hips and the beginning of his boxers and Ray has to actually _jerk_ his head away like he’s snatching a child away from oncoming traffic.

The Camel pack weighs like a stone in his pocket. 

“Better?” Ryan asks, which forces Ray to look at him again. This time, though, he’s permitted a loud laugh—better than aimless gawking.

“Holy fuck. You look like a drunk girl coming home from the club.”

“It’s not a phase,” Ryan deadpans, which makes Ray laugh harder. “I’m serious, _Mom._ ”

“Jesus. Last month I was Daddy and this month I’m Mom? Pick my fucking gender already.”

Ryan shrugs. “Nah. You can be like an oyster. Always changing.”

“...and why do you happen to know that oysters change gender?”

“Reasons,” Ryan says, looking into Ray’s eyes seriously—and the smeared face paint, paired with Ryan’s grave eyes, makes Ray lose it again.

He feels light. Free.

Then Ryan touches his back and it all surges painfully back.

The night is hot. Ray’s in a tank top. Ryan’s palm burns against bare skin. 

“Ryan,” he croaks out.

“Yeah.”

It’s right there, right on Ray’s tongue: _Just thought I’d mention how you’ve really got that hot dad vibe working, not that I’m into dudes or anything but fuck you for looking hot even with that tiny-ass ponytail. Oh, and also I fantasize about you cutting me open sometimes, which is kind of a lie, it’s more like all the time. Is that weird or??_

“Is it...weird that I’ve been calling us ‘the R&R Connection’ in my head this whole time?”

Ryan’s brow knits. 

“Okay,” Ray sighs, “yeah, I knew it would be. I just—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that that’s wholly unoriginal. I would think we’d be more worthy of Vonnegut, not Dr. Seuss.” Ryan shrugs, uncommitted. “No offense.”

Ray stares at him in utter disbelief for a good six seconds.

“You’re a fucking _snob._ ”

Ryan’s responding grin is lazy and unapologetic. “Hey, I said no offense. You were free to take it however you wanted.”

“Fuck you,” Ray laughs. “I worked long and hard on that name.”

“What, ten seconds? Eleven?”

Ray gives him a good-natured shove at that. “ _Twelve_ , you dick. _Fight me._ ”

Ryan pushes back a loose strand of hair from his forehead, leaving a tiny smudge in the paint. “Man,” he says heavily. “ _Twelve whole seconds._ God, it took Hemingway eleven to do ‘Farewell to Arms.’”

“Damn right. And where’s my fucking Pulitzer Prize?” Ray is so relieved that he could kick something. So he does—a fire hydrant absorbs a half-hearted blow from his checkerboard Van. “Where’s my fame and fortune? I’m underappreciated, I swear, Ryan. I’m too good for this town. Can’t see genius when it stares them straight in the face.”

“Or headshots them from a rooftop.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Ray exclaims. 

“So.” Ryan stretches, hitching his shirt up again and making it _very_ difficult for Ray to focus on the sidewalk. “R &R Connection, huh? We’re gonna run around with some Chuck E. Cheese name like that?”

“We absolutely are.”

Ryan shakes his head. “Man. I thought you were insane when you were high, Ray. But it turns out you’re just _weird._ ”

“Yeah, Mr. Sings _Wicked_ Song When He’s About to Murder Someone?”

Ray’s expecting protest, but is all the more delighted when Ryan utters an affronted, “...you heard that?”

“I sure as shit did.”

“And you know _Wicked_ songs?”

Ray nearly loses it, because Ryan actually sounds _hopeful._

“Oh, obviously not. I was just using it as a for-instance,” Ray says. Ryan rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “So what’s it gonna be? Chuck E. Cheese? Or can you do better?”

Ryan sighs. “This is almost as bad as Safety Buddy.”

Ray grips onto a lamppost and does a full-on stripper spin, winding up so close to Ryan’s painted face that they’re kissing but not really.

“Can. You. Do. _Better._ ”

Ryan smiles slowly.

“Absolutely. But I think I’ll keep it.”

His breath smells like cinnamon, and his teeth are perfect, and his eyes are looking into Ray’s like he’s about to take him right there against a fucking streetlight—and just a whole manner of other infuriatingly attractive things that Ray notices at their barely-there proximity. 

Gradually, he releases his grip on the post and drops to the ground. Ryan smiles with what looks like affection. 

“Maybe I’ll grow to like it.”

Ray clears his throat. “You’d better.”

Ryan has stars in his eyes, and Ray feels his mouth dry. The prickling is back, on every inch of his body.

God help him.

——

Off-handedly, Ray tells him, “Face paint’s a good look for you.”

Jack and Geoff are in the front, but Ryan still manages to look at him like they’re the only two people who have ever existed.

The urge is back, stronger than it’s been in years. Ray grips his sleeves tightly around his wrists.

——

Ray knows it’s coming. Joking around with Ryan is all well and good, but it’s all prelude.

The Bank Tower job stirred attention. It was one of the biggest they’d ever pulled, so no one is surprised—and granted, it’s mostly _bad_ attention, but when has Geoff ever been one for schematics? He’s stoked about it, until some up-and-comers in the South Side get the nerve to try to scope out one of their digs. Not that they kill or even _graze_ anyone, but they’re shit out of luck because Geoff’s about eighteen times as dramatic as Ryan. So the proposition is simple:

Find one of their safehouses and blow them all to the high fucking heavens.

Michael and Gavin scream like five year olds. Jack plugs his ears.

The “safehouse” is an undramatic warehouse in the middle of Little Seoul, with a whole manner of Korean graffiti and a really complicated mural sprayed on the side of one building. It’s a shame. Ray will hate to have to destroy that hard work.

He doesn’t even bother to be disgusted with himself anymore, honestly. His body might cry out in protest now more than his mind, but there’s not a damn thing he can do.

Except.

Everything’s peachy keen at first—they split off, and Ray’s got a whole building to himself to no-scope dudes and hide behind barrels of God-knows-what while their bullets miss badly. In addition to being under-budgeted, they’re also inexperienced. Easy peasy.

Then, in the final corridor, he’s reloading behind a wall when he hears footsteps that someone is obviously trying to conceal. And God, he feels so _bad_ for them, at how utterly _awful_ they are at sneak attacks, that he decides to do the right thing and humor them. He lets a pair of hands throw him backward; he even gasps. Geoff would be proud. He’s doing the Lord’s work. 

Then the guy hits him. 

Ray sucks in a breath. It hurt. That’s a given—getting clocked in the face tends to do that. But his mind starts to bubble with a sinister idea at that, and instead of stopping this guy from making a fool of himself, Ray holds still. He doesn’t resist.

Second punch, and what a bad punch it is, but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough. Something deep inside of him fully uncoils.

Ray closes his eyes, and the fist comes sailing at his face again. It makes his head jerk with an unhealthy crack. Stars cascade like a million electric pulses behind his eyelids; he can feel them in every fingertip. 

“The hell’s your deal?” the man snarls, accent thick and indistinguishable. “You’re not even fighting back. You _want_ me to hit you or something?”

Ray smirks, a line of blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “Maybe once you start hitting like a man, I’ll actually fucking feel something.”

Not exactly a lie, but it works; the kindling strokes the fire burning in the guy’s face—he’s clearly a rookie, desperate to prove himself, because he starts wailing on Ray again and any experienced banger would just shoot him. His fists crack on Ray’s face, his ribs, his stomach, and the blood actually _thunders_ inside of Ray like a glorious, slow fire burn. It’s lightning beneath his skin, galaxies living and dying, all within his body. He falls completely slack as blood fills his mouth. 

For one glorious, mind-blowing moment, he can _feel_ again.

“ _Get off of him, you_ fuck,” Michael roars, and the pain is brutally ripped away, leaving Ray exposed and oversensitive, like a nerve. Vaguely, he takes in Michael’s hands on the man’s massive chest, throwing him into the wall (and it’s in those milliseconds that Ray realizes the brevity of not confirming his status into his earpiece.) The explosion of body colliding with metal is earth-shattering.

Michael’s hand is a rabbit, darting to his belt. Ray croaks through a wad of bloody spit: “Mi—”

The guy’s head is gone, splattered in vicious, dark red across the metal. Ray squeezes his eyes shut.

And heaves all over the floor. 

“ _Jesus_ , Ray,” Michael exclaims, and those hands are on Ray’s shoulders—the only solid thing left keeping him standing. “What the fuck was _that_?”

Ray coughs, and is sickened by the red splash that follows. He dashes a hand across his wet mouth.

“You were just... _taking_ it. You could have kicked that guy’s ass. What the fuck happened?”

“He got the jump on me,” Ray manages, voice thick. “He overpowered me. It won’t happen again.”

It’s not good enough. Fuck, he didn’t think this through, just like before. They’ll see. They all know how good he is. They’ll _suspect._

And Ryan—

Michael holds onto Ray’s shoulders with both hands, studying him. “Are you okay, man?” he asks quietly. “He was really laying it into you. You normally _never_ let a guy sneak up on you.”

Ray forces a weak smile. “Dude, I’m a fucking sniper. Ground work’s a bitch sometimes.”

“You sure you’re not just like...high, right? Cuz you can tell me if you are.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Michael laughs, but Ray’s still a million miles away—his body still crippling beneath each blow.

——

“Holy _crev_ , Ray,” Gavin shouts the minute he lays eyes on him, retreating from the warehouse where the charges are set. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ray says, scrubbing blood from underneath his nose. “Someone just snuck up on me.”

Gavin frowns. “What?” Instinctively, Michael squawks “ _Wot!?_ ” mockingly, and Gavin smiles, shouldering him. “Since when does anybody sneak up on Ray Narvaez?”

Ray sighs. “First time for everything.”

“Guess Dad should keep you on the roof next time.”

“Yep.” Ray discretely presses into his side, where a blinding pulse of pain throbs like a nuclear blast. “The charges are set. We can bolt and blow this place to high heavens whenever you’re ready.”

Gavin nods. “Took care of my building. The other Gents are about—”

“Who did it?” Ryan interrupts, and the darkness in his voice dries the back of Ray’s throat. Ryan’s looking right at him—not that he ever actually looks _away_ —with a protectiveness so fierce that it makes his eyes glow, stars burning in the night. 

Mask on tonight. Thank _God_ , too; Ray doesn’t know if he could have handled much more.

“Don’t worry,” Michael says, immune to the tension. “I shot him. He’s done for.”

Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off of Ray. They’re so intense that they’re practically _violating_ , like hands scoping out Ray’s bruised flesh. “Are you okay?”

Ray’s head spins at how Ryan makes it sound so _intimate_. It’s almost enough to cripple him.

“I’m fine,” he whispers.

Ryan’s silent, and Ray forces himself to turn away, thankful that Jack and Geoff emerge from the opposite end of the parking lot.

“We all set?” Geoff asks, huffing.

They all nod. “Let’s light this bitch up,” Michael proclaims, detonator in hand—and in that moment, Ray longs for a smoke. For the fire of the explosion to touch him somehow. 

“Jesus,” Jack says suddenly, eyes on Ray for the first time. “Did you get mauled by a _bear_?”

“No.” Ryan’s voice is dry. Even behind the mask, his eyes are visibly narrowed. “Someone finally got the jump on him, it seems.”

“It won’t happen again,” Ray cuts in. The side of his face burns from where Ryan’s eyes are pinned. “I lived. It’s no big deal.”

But Geoff’s frowning. “Is anything broken?”

Ray shrugs. “Probably. Doesn’t really matter.”

Geoff nods, and Ray has never appreciated that more—that level of respect—than he does now. Anything to lessen the already potent tension radiating off of Ryan.

When they all pile into the SUV, Geoff noticeably winces gripping onto the steering wheel. Even in the dark, unlit cabin, there’s a deep, painful gash torn in the crook of his elbow that stains the surrounding white fabric the color of a good cabernet. Then Jack turns around in the shotgun seat to pass Gavin—who’s very insistent on being the one to turn the warehouses into tombs—the detonator, and Ray sees that Jack’s nose is leaking, with bright red beads of blood in his beard. The bone is clearly broke.

But Ryan doesn’t have much to say about any of that.

Four blocks out, Geoff yells out, “Let’s remind Los Santos who’s boss.” Gavin looks positively _giddy_ as he brings his thumb down on the remote’s button. 

Behind them, the earth actually _moves_ as the charges detonate. An enormous cloud of fiery orange tinged with black smoke reaches into the night, like a solar flare feathering up from the earth’s crust; the car hitches in temperature with their own excitement and the sheer power of the enormous fireball they’ve left in their wake, a tower of flame so hot that Ray can feel it through the back windshield. 

Michael’s delirious scream of “ _Holy fucking SHIT_ ” is virtually drowned out by the madness of car alarms, distant shouting, and stunned bystanders yelling and pointing and recording on their phones. Geoff spanks the wheel, doubling over with a hysterical laugh, when a confused group of cops emerge from a nearby bar. They drive right past them.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Michael declares miles down the road, on the highway. He still sounds winded. “ _Fuck_ , I love my job.”

“It looked like a bloody _war zone_ ,” Gavin squeals. “Practically concussed myself on Jack’s seat.”

Jack laughs. “I was wondering if that was the explosion or you that hit my back.”

“Gentleman,” Geoff announces gravely. “I’d say that? Was a _complete_ success.”

“Damn fucking right it was. Let’s see those shitheads try to fuck with us now,” Michael says; bloodlust falls over his eyes like a shadow.

Ray leans back in his seat, still suffering aftershocks; the explosion slammed his already battered body forward, reawakening the delicious burn that had set his skin on fire, but it was fading all too quickly. Fuck Geoff and his no-smoking-in-the-car rule. 

The part of Ray that wants it, that dark whisper just beyond the rational part of his brain, is too full to be ignored now.

The part of him that he _swore_ he’d abandoned so long ago.

Beside him, Ryan is statue-still. The tidal wave of the explosion didn’t even seem to affect him, static to the immense blast; even the mask, in his lap, was posed like a dog getting its picture taken. His eyes stay ahead, mostly, but Ray’s suspicions are confirmed the instant that the four up front get distracted and Ryan turns his head, fierce gaze searing into Ray’s skin. Ray doesn’t even have to look. He can feel it, a hot scratch that trails down his throat and onto his arms, his hands.

He holds his breath.

Ryan takes hold of Ray’s forearm, for just one second, and just that one little touch—it’s fucking electricity, it has Ray wetting his lips and resisting the way his lungs want to drag in air faster. There wasn’t a lot of space between them to begin with, but then Ryan shifts, and what was once a little goes down to zero.

Against the side of Ray’s neck, Ryan breathes, “No defensive wounds.”

Ray moves backward, but he’s trapped between Ryan and the door. Ryan’s forehead just barely touches his temple.

“Hmm.” He makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. His voice is soft and sensual and spreads across Ray’s body like a pair of lips. “This guy really caught you by surprise, didn’t he?”

Ray swallows. He wills himself to make a nasty comment, a biting remark. But he feels pinned.

“Shit happens.”

Ryan chuckles, and Ray yanks away again, crossing his arms across his body. He curls up against the side of the car, as far away as physically possible in the small space.

Almost to himself, Ryan whispers, “That’s interesting.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ray hisses. 

“But I thought you liked the pain.”

And. Ray. Almost. Bites.

_Almost._ He sure as shit _wants_ to. He’s inches from whipping around and meeting Ryan’s gaze.

But instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and leans against the window. The pleasant flame has long been dulled to a sore ache.

Doesn’t matter. He already has a plan.

——

Back at the apartment complex, he must have dozed off because Michael shakes him awake. Geoff says from the front seat, “Take a good long nap, my boy. You earned it.”

Even half-awake, Ray is expecting a comment from Ryan. But he’s silent, his gaze unreadable as he watches Ray go.

This’ll come back to bite him in the ass. Of course it will. It was an amateur move. The others might be over it, but when would Ryan ever go easy on him?

In his high-rise, Ray makes sure the door is locked behind him before heading into the master bath. He doesn’t bother to turn on the lights as his hand gropes in the cabinet beneath the sink—until his fingers meet familiar, cool metal.

The knife was his grandfather’s, a fine folder with a pearly bone handle. It was the only good thing his father ever gave him. 

The blade is stainless steel, and he scratches off some flakes of old blood with his nail. He’s already trembling when he rolls up his shirt; the skin of his stomach feels hot to the touch and eager as he smooths his free hand over it, over the landscape of ancient scars and shallower scratches, back when they used to satisfy his bloodlust. The knife edge slips across his flesh when he brings it down, and he has to press until he feels the skin break.

All of the air empties from his lungs.

A blinding arrow of pleasure-pain spikes throughout his whole body as he stands, shaking and panting and carving a gouge parallel to his naval. A hot line of blood drips down his skin, onto his jeans and the floor and down his quivering fingertips. He staggers and has to grip the counter to steady himself, his head fucking _whirling_ from the rush. It feels like his heart is going to give out as he tremblingly brings the knife into the sink and washes away the evidence of what he’s done. The fresh line in his skin is like a kiss of pure fucking fire. He’s never felt more alive. 

There’s dried blood on nearly every visible inch of his body, but he doesn’t bother to shower. He just lets it dry and goes right to bed.


	2. Whiplash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray likes pain, Ryan loves to kill, and Geoff thinks they work well together.
> 
> It's a lethal combination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less of a trigger warning for this chapter: there are mentions of it, as well as scars, but nothing like the first.

The cut reopens a few days later, on the way back from staking out their next heist.

Ray’s in the passenger seat, and it’s _Gavin_ driving, so he shouldn’t be surprised when there’s a sudden step on the brakes, or Michael howling “ _GAH-VIIIIIIN_ ” in the back seat, or the seat belt cutting across Ray’s lap and—

_Drip._

He gasps.

“ _What the_ fuck, _Gav._ ” Michael keeps at it while Gavin tries to shriek an explanation and navigate through heavy traffic all at once. But their shouts are whispers, a white noise to the deafening thunder of blood in Ray’s ears. He sweeps a hand across his flat stomach and the reopened seam, which seeps into the front of his T-shirt.

The teeth of flames, sinking into his skin.

Biting his lip, he digs his fingers into it, until it cracks more. Air rushes from his mouth and he sees an entire universe behind his eyelids.

He has to remind himself to fucking _breathe._

Michael and Gavin bitch at each other the entire ride back while Ray trembles in the passenger, his hoodie firmly zipped up over the long bloody line that’s leaked into his shirt. What had him shivering with pleasure ends with the car parked in downtown and him curled up on his seat in shame. The blood’s like a physical manifestation of his broken promise, because God, he _swore_ to himself a long time ago that _this_ —whatever the fuck this craving is—was _over._ He put the knife away and let the wounds scar over. It was done.

So much for that.

Ray’s not interested in finding out what causes it. He’ll die before he lets some Yale graduate in a cheap suit tell him how fucked-up he already knows he is. He’d thought about it for a while, but that was during a time even darker than this, when he wasn’t thinking clearly—when any answer, no matter how humiliating or degrading, would do. And, as much as he wants it to stop, it’s his business. His fucking demons. His responsibility. It’s part of why he shrugged when Geoff asked about his dad; it’s not something Geoff, or anyone, for that matter, needs to know.

Ray tells himself this, on repeat, as he climbs out of the car. He might not look like much, but he’s tough—ask anyone in the Crew. He can kick this in the ass.

When he folds his arms across his stomach, the cut stings.

For just a second, it feels bigger than anything he could ever imagine.

Then it’s gone.

——

Ray shouldn’t even be fucking surprised that Ryan’s the last one to let it go. And he isn’t.

But he is extremely pissed.

Ryan’s idea of retaliation unfolds gravely during their next mission together, which ends with three dozen greasy gangbangers chasing them through Pillbox Hill. Plenty of bodies to add to their growing reputation.

It’s a shame Ray doesn’t contribute a damn thing.

The first time, he’s crouched behind a parked car and thinks it’s a lucky ricochet that slams into the guy’s throat. But then, seven or eight lucky lucky ricochets later and he realizes just what the fuck is going on. 

“Ryan,” he snaps, and Ryan looks at him innocently. “Let me shoot for Christ’s sake.”

“I am. You’re free to shoot all you like.”

“’Kay, let me rephrase: let me shoot and actually fucking land a shot,”

Ryan widens his eyes. “But I’m your Safety Buddy.”

Ray grits his teeth, because Ryan’s practically _singsong_. Capricious _dick._

“Just focus on your own targets.”

Which is all well and good, until he finally thinks he’s far away and the guy in front of him gets his stomach blasted open from what was very much not his bullet.

“ _Ryan. Haywood._ ”

“Oooh,” Ryan teases, “full names now. Am I in twouble?” 

Ray surges forward, getting right in Ryan’s smug and annoyingly nice face. Because, as much as he knows every _syllable_ is bait, he’s only human. There’s a limit on what he can take.

“Fucking _stop._ ”

“Why?” Ryan breathes, clearly enjoying every second. “I’m supposed to protect you from the outside world, right?”

“Ryan, I swear to God—”

Without looking away, Ryan fires his gun. A body drops behind Ray.

That, and the dangerous smile that Ryan sports, pisses Ray right the _fuck off._

“What the hell do you want from me?” he hisses.

Evenly, Ryan says, “What happened in that building?”

“I told you—”

Ray spots the guy behind Ryan’s shoulder and lifts his gun, just as Ryan whips around and blows his head off.

He’s so sharp and calculated—always faster. Always more precise.

And he makes Ray feel absolutely _tiny._

“Why are you doing this?” he croaks.

“Why are you lying?” Ryan replies.

Ray blinks. If he hadn’t noticed that their chests are nearly touching and they’re very much within kissing distance, he’d be full of shit.

“It’s not important.”

“Right.” A cool flame smolders in Ryan’s eyes. “Just like nothing that ever happens to you is important. All status fucking quo.”

Ray swallows. “Jesus Christ, Ryan. What do you think _happened_?”

Ryan arches a brow. “What do I think? I think I wanna rain absolute fucking hell on whomever did this to you and I’m sorry that Michael got there first.” He says it so _casually_ , too, as his hand fishes a grenade from his pocket, cocks back, and hurls it behind him like he’s throwing a tennis ball to a dog. The explosion engulfs them in a rush of heat and throws a parked car into the air; calmly, Ryan continues. “And I think you might have wanted it to happen, but I haven’t quite put together why just yet.” 

“That’s fucking insane.”

Ryan tilts his head. “Is it?”

Ray glances toward the mayhem unfolding down the street—people scream and point and run. Cars are burning. There’s charred metal and dead bodies and pandemonium as far as the eye can fucking see.

“Ray,” Ryan says in a low voice, “I’d say that fits us pretty well, wouldn’t you?”

“There is no ‘us,’” Ray says.

“Hell yeah, there is.” Ryan’s chipper as can be as he takes out three guys on a low roof. “R&R Connection, baby. ’Til death do us part.”

Ray watches their bodies fall while, beside him, Ryan cheerfully hums _I’m Here._

——

Two weeks later, when Geoff bellows, “ _Heist!_ ”, Ray knows how the discussion will end.

It’s a big job—the biggest they’ve done since the Bank Tower, and Geoff waits until the last second to say what Ray’s dreading: “Ryan, Ray, you’ll be rooftop. Provide cover fire and warn us of anyone suspect. The instant those alarms go off, you be on the lookout. There’s gonna be cops crawling wherever they can reach. Cover us then haul ass. Got it?”

Lovely.

——

Ryan doesn’t talk to him.

But this is different than the mutual silence that they usually share because, most of the night, Ray can see the ghost of a conversation in Ryan’s eyes. How desperately he _wants_ to talk—how his teeth dig into his tongue. How he’s actually almost kinda maybe sort of _displaying emotion._

Something’s definitely not right.

Up on the rooftop, the sniper’s nest is cool from the night. In their earpieces, it’s mostly silent except for Jack’s poorly-disguised panting and Geoff muttering about how it should be “fucking illegal to have this many goddamn stairs.” The wind whips around and the city noise echoes distantly, and Ray closes his eyes, craning his neck, facing the stars. The air feels icy against his hot skin.

“Ray,” Ryan says.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. So full of possibilities.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Ray blinks. “What, respond?”

Ryan keeps his eyes out toward the city, and Ray can’t tell a damn thing going on in his head because of that mask. “Shoulder your own weight. I know you don’t wanna tell me what’s going on with you, and that’s fine, but don’t ever feel like I’m not interested or I don’t care.”

“Ryan.” Ray blows out a breath. “Let it go, for Christ’s sake. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Because he’s okay, he thinks. He hasn’t wanted to cut since. That time with Gavin in the car? Isolated incident. The cut’s already healing again. He was just startled.

_Yeah._

“No,” Ryan says evenly. “You letting some lowlife gangster pound on you is kind of a big fucking deal, Ray. All I’m saying is, don’t feel like you have to hide it because no one gives a shit.”

Ray’s pulse races. Is this even the same _person_ that was humming _Follies_ songs and racking up casualties just to piss Ray off? 

“Why do you even care,” Ray mutters, but Ryan doesn’t answer. The sound of his gun cocking back is reminiscent of a crack of lightning in the peaceful night.

His silence is unnerving as hell. 

“I’m fine, Ryan,” Ray insists, in response to nothing. Then, remembering what Ryan said before, he backpedals: “The minute it’s something I can’t handle, you’ll know. How’s that?”

Then the sirens go off across the street, and there’s no more time to talk.

——

They get out of there with only grazes among them and a fucking _staggering_ thirty million among the six of them.

Out in the Grand Senora, they ditch their getaway vehicles, torch them, and Ray stands off to the side waiting for Michael to get the Crew’s car. The black smoke of the burning cars billows down the road.

Naturally, Ryan saunters up to him.

“What,” Ray says flatly. He feels like an asshole, but he’s in no mood for anything Ryan could possibly have to say. Not after whatever the hell transpired on the roof. 

Leave it to Ryan to surprise the shit out him. 

First he takes the mask off, untying his hair. The wind blows through it, and leave it to Ryan to look like a fucking model after he killed dozens of men. Then he goes, “You were amazing, Ray.”

Ray hesitates.

“Seriously. You’re a hell of a shot.” Ryan looks at him, eyes lazy but sincere in their black greasepaint. He smiles, but, for the first time, something’s off. There’s a crack. He doesn’t make it sound like a creepy innuendo, either, which is _so_ not like him. 

“Thanks,” Ray says uncertainly, giving Ryan a very unnecessary, very white-dudebro punch to the shoulder. And then, as if it couldn’t get worse:

“Same to you, bud.”

Bud. _Bud._ Why doesn’t he just swing his rifle out from behind his back and just shoot himself now?

Ryan frowns. His eyes search Ray’s face and, if Ray’s not mistaken, that’s confusion that’s staring back at him.

“God,” Ryan starts, “sometimes you just…” But he doesn’t finish, and just turns away with a soft laugh. Leaving Ray to contemplate _whatever_ the fuck that means. 

“I... _okay_?” 

Ryan sighs, a deep sigh that makes his shoulders rise and fall. Like Ray’s just so fucking _difficult._

It boils Ray’s blood, but minutely.

“Sometimes I don’t understand you,” Ryan says softly.

Flabbergasted, all Ray can cough out is, “Ditto.”

“Whatever. We should get going.”

“Wait,” Ray says, hand up. “So that’s it? You’re opening a door you won’t close?”

Ryan just looks at him, bored. Without a word, he shoulders his gun and heads for the car.

“God,” Ray mutters. “You are so fucking moody.”

At that, Ryan slits him a nasty look that momentarily quails Ray—because he’s seen that look. The one that indicates a deal’s about to go wrong because Ryan’s about to go on a rampage. The one where he’s physically keeping himself from grabbing onto someone’s neck...aka not the sort of look he dares give _anyone_ in the Crew.

And yet. 

“Guys!” Geoff shouts from the getaway car. “Haul ass, we gotta blow before the cops find us.”

Ryan keeps his eyes on Ray, and Ray says, “They’re not gonna find us.” 

Ray can’t be sure, but he’s about five percent away from completely fucking positive that Ryan just _scoffed._ At _him._ It makes his skin burn.

Unaware, Geoff goes, “Just get in, shithead.”

——

Ray knows he fucked up somehow, somewhere, because Ryan chooses the seat across from him.

Before he realizes it, he’s spent half the ride wondering what exactly he did wrong while Geoff insists Jack turn up the already very-turned-up hip-hop station on the radio “this _instant_ , young man, we just stole two hundred million dollars you think I give a shit about a _noise complaint_?” And Ray finds, in his deep moment of contemplation, that he’s even more pissed off than he was before, because _fuck_ Ryan and his bipolar-ass personality and how he’s nearly broken Ray’s neck with the fucking mood whiplash—and fuck him for making Ray feel like a needy girlfriend whose boyfriend won’t text her back. Fuck him in _particular_ for that.

“The hell are y’all so _quiet_ for?” Geoff asks loudly. “We’re fucking _rich_.”

“Hold on, Geoff,” Gavin calls, voice muffled around the J he has clenched in his teeth. The snap of the lighter startles Ray.

Ryan’s looking out the window, his mask between his legs. 

“Ray,” Michael says. The joint is perched between his outstretched fingers. “Want a little? Rolled it myself.”

Ray stares at the roach.

“Pass,” he says.

“The _hell_?” Michael says as Gavin shrugs and drags the smoke into his lungs. “Dude. You _always_ blaze with us.”

“I don’t need it tonight.”

Gavin sucks in air sharply and passes back to Michael, who almost doesn’t relent. Then he takes a toke. “Whatever, dude.”

“Later,” Ray says half-heartedly, already looking back out the window. 

“Ryan?” Michael asks with a smoky cough. To absolutely no one’s surprise, though, he shakes his head.

“I’m good.”

Ray scoffs. “Of course you are.”

Ryan looks at him like he’s about as interesting as a lampshade. And honestly? _Fuck it._

“Too good for pot, huh?” Ray sneers, longing to rip that damn raised eyebrow straight out of Ryan’s smug-ass face. “It’s too _dirty_.”

Closing his eyes, Ryan sighs long and loud again. Ray could fucking slap him. 

“Uh oh,” Gavin yells. “Trouble in paradise?”

Ray doesn’t answer, glaring at Ryan. 

Coolly, with his eyes on Ray, Ryan says, “Michael. Pass me the J.”

“Huh?”

Ryan extends a hand. “Pass it.”

Michael scrunches up his face. “Uh, alright.” Confused, and already a little stoned, he complies. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“It’s a secret,” Ryan says evenly, clicking the Zippo twice. The rip he takes is long and impressive and burns through half of the paper—and is more likely than not completely directed at Ray.

Ryan doesn’t cough or screw up his eyes or flinch. Clockwork. Not too good for weed after all.

Michael takes the joint back, now a stubby little gumdrop, and flicks it out the window. Embers streak like a trail of fire behind the car. Mildly, Jack says, “Keep that open if you’re gonna hotbox back there; I need to be sober enough to drive.”

“Yeah, _kids_ ,” chides the very un-sober Geoff, slugging back on a bottle of beer. 

Ray feels teeth grind down when Ryan, after holding in the smoke for a few seconds, manages to make blowing out the huge, hazy plume look like the most sexual thing Ray’s ever seen. Ryan’s lips, his eyes, his entire fucking _face_ —after he empties his lungs, he closes his eyes and bites his lip, and Ray isn’t sure if he wants to destroy him or _destroy_ him. All he knows is he’s even more pissed off than before and the car is hot and Ryan is hotter and the heat rising in Ray’s face isn’t from the hazy smoke hanging around him. 

The lighter _shks_ again; Michael brought a whole Ziploc.

“Ryan,” he croaks, exhaling. Gavin is sucking on his own joint like its a soda straw. “Want another toke?”

Slowly, Ryan opens his eyes.

“Definitely.”

——

Jack stops the car at his apartment, because he has this weird fucking thing where he needs to drink a _very certain_ beer after a heist. It’s very Ryan-like.

Naturally, while they wait, Michael and Gavin float around on the sidewalk like they’re about to detach from the Earth and drift away. 

They’re two blunts in and almost dead, at this rate, but Ryan looks fucking _regal_ as he stands beside the car, rubbing the curve of his neck. If he’s even _high_ , Ray can’t fucking tell. He looks softer and hazier, and maybe, if you squint, he moves just a _little_ bit slower, but he’s as poised and hot-professor-looking as ever.

Ray’s seething so hard he nearly boils over.

“Ray,” Gavin titters behind him, “you know what I’m gonna spend my money on?”

“What, Gav?”

“Pot.”

Ray rolls his eyes. He’s sober as a judge, but he figures the nice thing would be to humor Gavin’s stoned insanity. 

“Pot,” Michael seconds, “and explosives. Lots of fucking explosives.”

“Michael, what if you used the explosives to burn the weed?” Gavin asks, borderline in a _coo._ His eyes are enormous. “So two or three city blocks got super high.”

“Gavin,” Michael says seriously, “you are a fucking _genius._ ”

“Yeah,” Gavin laughs, right as he clips a pole.

And swings around.

And crashes into Ray.

Ray goes flying to the pavement in a spectacular, slow-motion crash that’s accompanied by a backdrop of various Gavin noises and Michael and Geoff losing it on the sidewalk.

Ray’s shirt also flies up, around his face. The night digs its cold hands into his stomach.

His _stomach_ —

“ _Gavin_ ,” Ray barks, yanking his shirt down. But it’s too late. It’s too fucking late. Ryan’s seen ( _of course_ he fucking has.) He’s standing on the sidewalk, his eyes bloodshot and wide and very much pinned to Ray. 

“Sorry, X-Ray,” Gavin snickers from the pavement. Ray ignores him.

Ryan doesn’t react when Ray looks at him.

If anyone saw his stomach, they don’t say; Geoff is Father of Year, dragging Gavin up so his semi-unconscious body is slung over Geoff’s shoulder, and Michael’s about to explode, he’s laughing so hard, and Jack is re-emerging from his apartment in time to look confused as all fuck at the chaos—and Ryan. Fucking Ryan. He’s completely still. He doesn’t even look real.

Knowing no one’s listening, Ray says, “It was nothing.”

Ryan blinks. Other than that, his face doesn’t move an inch.

“Alright,” Geoff shouts, “we need to get going. Too dangerous to be lingering out in the open like this.”

“Holy shit, Geoff,” Michael wheezes. “Is Gavin fucking _dead_?”

Face buried in Geoff’s back, Gavin’s voice is muffled: “No.” It makes Michael laugh harder.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack says. “I leave for _five minutes_ —”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geoff says. “Nothing can stop this dumbass when he wants to act idiotic.”

They all collectively move back to the car, and Ray takes that as his indication to follow suit.

Only problem is Ryan’s stock-still beside the back end of the car and very much an obstacle—and Ray makes the mistake of looking into his eyes as he approaches.

Even high, Ryan looks delectable.

“Excuse me,” Ray say quietly.

Ryan steps aside, wordless, and opens the door. 

Then he opens his mouth, and it’s a ghost of what he said before that leaves goosebumps on every inch of Ray’s body:

“ _Interesting._ ”

——

Holy shit.

 _Fuck_ Ryan. Fuck him. Fuck his pretentious attitude and his smug-ass face and his deep, sexy voice and his hot fucking _everything_ and just fuck fuck fuck fuck _FUCK HIM._

Ray hasn’t been this mad in years.

It takes him until he’s in his bed to realize just how _good_ it feels to be angry, and that somehow makes it _much worse_ because Ryan caused it.

Ray rolls over so violently that his hoodie, draped over the edge of the bed, flies off.

Seriously. Fuck Ryan.

——

Like most things, Geoff’s not 100% ready to let go just yet.

A week later, he all but orders them to come out drinking with him “because we’re rich as fuck.” With Gavin’s stoned comment about buying pot, Ray can see the adopted apple doesn’t fall far from the tuxedo’d tree.

He’s so dogged in his ignorance of Ryan that it hurts.

The bar is packed, but full of characters shady enough that most everyone recognizes them. While the bartender is pouring out their drinks, Geoff says good-naturedly, “I might buy this place.”

“Here,” Michael says to Ray, interrupting his not-paying-attention-to-Ryan stupor. “So you don’t feel alone.”

Ray sighs. “Not tonight.”

“Again?” Michael looks almost _wounded_ , blunt clutched to his heart; ever since he learned how to roll, he acts like his joints are sticks of pure fucking gold. “Two times in a row? The fuck gives, Ray?”

“Taking a crack at sobriety.”

Michael scrunches his nose. “Ew. Why?”

“I’ll have it if he’s not, Michael,” Gavin offers. Michael lands a flick on Gavin’s ear that has him fussing like a four year old.

“Is something going on, dude?”

Ray lets out a laugh that he prays will pass. “C’mon, dude—just because I don’t wanna smoke as much anymore?”

“You tell me.”

Ray’s mouth opens faster than his brain can order it shut: “You sound like Ryan.”

_No._

“Jesus, Ray. Didn’t take you long to mention him, huh?” Michael’s eyes are laughing.

Ray grinds his jaw, and the electricity nearly blinds him.

Once they start getting drinks into themselves, the conversation becomes less linear and increasingly incoherent, so Ray tries to play Dead Trigger on his phone for a while (and disregard the 21% battery life), and it _works_ except he seriously sucks at it.

His mind is occupied with more important shit than killing zombies using really shitty controls.

“I love you all,” Michael bellows at one point, drunk and sobbing a little. “God, I love you all so much.”

“Even me, Michael?”

“Shut the hell up, Gavin,” Michael weeps. It nearly brings the house down.

Ray’s phone dies not long after—so much for that shit.

A strong, rough hand touches his back, and Ray hates himself that much more for knowing exactly who it is.

“What the fuck are you _doing_?”

“Huh?” Ryan smiles crookedly. “What?”

Ray hunches forward while Ryan climbs onto the stool beside him. He reeks faintly of grass and ivory soap.

Ray manages to convince himself that it’s the rankest smell in history.

Ryan’s sucking on Ray’s hand-me-down joint, and it’s quiet between them as Ryan blows a smoke ring and Ray pretends Ryan doesn’t exist. And he’s proud of himself; he actually makes it about twenty seconds. That’s gotta be a record, considering his flaky self-control.

Then:

“Didn’t realize you were talking to me now.”

_Talk about fucking_ irony.

“Crazy, how things just happen, huh?” Ryan lifts the blunt. “Open.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Open.” Ryan takes a drag. “Quick,” he says, tilting his head back. A feather of smoke floats toward the ceiling.

Ray scowls. “Dude. You are _not_ shot—”

And to be fair, his dumbass should have realized that talking qualifies as opening, because Ryan crisply bends down and cups Ray’s cheek as he breathes smoke into Ray’s mouth. It’s the single most stunning moment of Ray’s life. 

Ryan’s hands are calloused, but soft and cool. They leave a feeling like sin on Ray’s skin when Ryan pulls away and Ray has no choice but to exhale. 

“Did you... _force_ a shotgun on me?”

Ryan smirks, putting the joint back in his mouth. The tip glows. “You didn’t exactly pull away.”

The single most stunning, and the single most WTF.

“Ryan, what the absolute _hell._ ” Ryan doesn’t answer, and Ray damn near loses it. “I don’t fucking understand you. You’re like forty different people at once. How the fuck am I supposed to keep up?”

“Ah.” Ryan takes a quick puff. “That’s the beauty of it: you don’t.”

“You’re fucking weird,” Ray mutters. Ryan leans forward again, but Ray seals his lips shut and dodges Ryan like he’s swerving back from a fist. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” Ryan’s breath is hot and leaves an unscratchable itch on Ray’s skin. Ray swats him away. 

“Is this why you don’t smoke? Because it makes you even more bizarre and creepy than usual?”

“Ray,” Ryan says, “you seem to be under the impression that the first time I smoked was back in that car.”

“Let me rephrase: is that why you initially said no?”

Ryan shrugs. He blows smoke out of his nose. “Nah. That was mostly because you did.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Ray snorts. He can already feel the weed working through his system. “Didn’t want me to feel left out?”

“Something like that.” He’s so deadpan that it’s kind of unsettling. At least when he was being bizarre and creepy, Ray could get a read on him. Now it’s like trying to gauge how a mannequin is feeling.

“Were you a stoner, back in the day?” Ray asks.

That gets him a chuckle and a smile, at least. He’ll take it.

“God, you make me feel old. And no, I wasn’t.”

“Clean as a whistle?”

“It was the least I could do.”

Ray feels the prickling reawaken in his wrists, slowly, like a sleeping cat stretching. “You don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?”

“Not particularly.” Ryan turns the blunt over in his fingers, then holds it out to Ray. And it’s a short little thing, but old habits die fucking hard, Ray decides, as he takes it and burns through the rest of the paper. “It has nothing to do with you, trust me. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not a very interesting person.”

Ray scoffs out a watery cloud of smoke. “Like hell you aren’t.”

Ryan smiles at that. It might actually be genuine, too.

Not that Ray meant it as a compliment or anything— _obviously_ not, he decides. “Interesting” in this context is kind of like how Ryan used it last: condescending. Negative.

Obviously.

“Tell you what, Ray. I ask you about your secrets, you ask me about mine. One apiece.”

Already, the pot’s got him looser. Fuck, why did he ever decide sobriety was a good route? “Sounds fair.”

Ryan nods. “Alright, I’ll start: where’d you get those cuts?”

Ray freezes.

Ryan watches him measuredly. The rest of the bar feels underwater, or faraway—a murky background noise. 

Cause of death: _where’d you get those cuts._

“I don’t know,” Ray whispers, eighteen miles from anything convincing. He looks away from Ryan’s unwavering gaze. “Like you said, life. I never really thought about it, I guess.”

“I think you have, Ray,” Ryan says in a quiet, husky voice. Ray closes his eyes.

“What the fuck would _you_ know? You’re not in my head.”

“No,” Ryan says softly. “I’m not. But I wish to God sometimes I was.”

“No you fucking don’t,” Ray says back without hesitation. He looks into Ryan’s eyes. “Trust me.”

Ryan’s mouth indents with a small smile. “C’mon, Ray, throw me a bone here. I can’t tell you anything until I get more than a three-syllable answer.”

God. Fuck Gavin for being clumsy when he’s stoned. Actually, just in general. Ray wouldn’t be in this mess if he wasn’t.

“Was this your plan?” he whispers. “To get me high so I’d talk?”

Ryan doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes on his own.

Holy shit.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Ray growls, pushing back from the bar. A blinding pulse of anger makes his vision tunnel. “Are you fucking serious right now, Ryan? You think that’s okay?”

Ryan just watches him. His eyes are red and his voice heavy from the weed, but Ray knows he’s sober. “Who hurt you?”

Ray leans toward him, right up in Ryan’s face. Their noses nearly touch.

“Fuck. You.”

At this distance, Ray sees the one thing that’s different, the _true_ evidence of pot: Ryan’s edges. He’s less sharp and alert. No wonder he didn’t want to smoke before. 

Quietly, Ryan says, “I didn’t get you high with that in mind.”

“Bullshit,” Ray chokes. His entire body lurches back when he feels Ryan’s hand at the hem of his shirt.

Ryan makes a sound between his teeth, glancing at Ray’s stomach. Ray feels like his heart’s about to beat its way out of his chest.

“ _Don’t._ ”

Slowly, Ryan drags his eyes up to Ray’s and it figures that, even stoned, he’s still deliberate. “That someone could ever do that to someone so…” 

He lets it hang there, like smoke in the air between them. Ray feels himself getting impossibly hot.

Without a word, he turns away and heads toward Geoff, who has an arm around Gavin and is laughing at something the piece he’s definitely gonna bring home tonight is saying—Geoff, if nothing else, is predictable as fuck, and the woman has tattoos, bright blue hair, and killer gams. Right up his alley.

“Geoff,” Ray croaks.

“ _Ray_ ,” Geoff bellows. “Nice of you to take a break from your deep conversation with Ryan to join us.”

Ray’s skin _crawls_  


at the name. “Geoff, I have to leave.”

“How come, buddy?”

“The weed was bad. I just thought I’d let you know. I’ll text tomorrow.”

Geoff nods, too distracted with not losing his one night stand’s attention. “Of course, man. You take care of you.”

“I had the same experience, Ray,” Gavin pipes up. “Nasty stuff Michael brought tonight.”

“Yeah,” Ray says distractedly. The exit sign—and his salvation—glows bright green across the room. “I’ll see ya.”

“Cheers.”

Ray high-tails it.

——

He was wrong. Holy shit, was he wrong.

Ryan _is_ in his head. He’s in Ray’s head, under his skin, in his _blood_. He’s like a fucking disease, infesting every inch of Ray.

He shakes the entire drive home.

——

His apartment is silent.

Ray changes his clothes and lies on the couch, eyes on the bay windows that overlook Los Santos. Ryan’s smell still lingers on his skin, along with the pot—no amount of changing clothes is gonna get rid of that.

He’s in too deep. 

Took him long enough. But better late than never.

The fuck was he even _doing_ , looking at Ryan like that? Like Ryan could possibly be anything other than a fucking menace to society? He barely scrapes by as a _coworker_ —how could he be something more? Like, what was Ray’s _plan_? Ask Ryan out to dinner while not-so-secretly hinting using a steak knife that he wants Ryan to split his flesh open? Lean over while they’re at the movies and whisper that he thinks Ryan’s hot and also super-violent but no worries because that’s _such a turn-on_? Fucking _shit_.

Ray feels himself sink further into self-loathing as the minutes tick by on the wall clock.

“This was stupid,” he mutters aloud.

His front door, locked from the inside, clicks as someone unlocks it. He jumps up, but the weed must be lingering because he’s not strapped.

The hallway is pitch-black past the lights of the apartment. 

Shot in the dark: “Michael?”

“Oh,” intones a deep voice like melted chocolate. “Damn. I thought it’d be obvious by now.”

Ray’s stomach falls.

“Does Gavin know?” Ryan asks mildly, only just on this side of kidding. 

“ _...are you fucking serious_ ,” Ray yells.

“Anyways.” Ryan pushes his hair off of his forehead, nonchalant. “I—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan, you can’t just fucking burst in here—”

“I have before,” Ryan says evenly, kicking the door shut with his foot. He takes off his jacket and drapes it over an armchair. “Got any Coke?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Ray barks. Ryan ignores him, already headed for the kitchen. “Ryan. Breaking into my house once is one thing, but breaking into it a second time, _with me fucking in it_ —”

“You walked away in the midst of a compelling conversation. I thought that was pretty rude, Ray.” Ryan turns so their eyes meet. “When you put rudeness like that out there, you should always anticipate it coming back at you tenfold.”

Ray stares at him in disbelief. 

“So.” Ryan smiles tightly. “No Coke, I see. That’s fine. I’ll buy you some.”

“Get the hell out of my apartment.”

“No.”

“ _Ryan_ —”

“Who hurt you, Ray?” Ryan’s voice grows softer—more intimate. Ray squeezes his eyes shut so tightly, it’s painful. “Tell me.”

“Fuck off,” Ray growls.

“But that’s not how we roll, Ray.” Ryan advances toward him, and Ray takes an instinctive step back, in spite of the weird ache in his hands for Ryan to come closer. “That’s not how it’s gonna be between the two of us.”

“What the fuck are you on about? There’s nothing _between_ us, you fucking weirdo.”

Ryan cocks his head with a smile, as if to say _but there could be_ —and God, does Ray long to beat down the thing inside of him that loves that look, that loves the possibility. He hates that all he can do to resist is back himself into a corner. 

“Who cut you?” Ryan repeats.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“It is. Anything and everything about you is my business.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

Ray can’t think of anything to say.

Fuck whatever happened at the bar. This is about a thousand times as weird.

“I want to see.”

“Yeah?” Ray snorts. “How’s it feel to want?”

Ryan’s eyes darken, and Ray thinks he’s in trouble—they are alone, after all, and Ryan could be armed—until that velvety voice breathes, “You’re savage. I _love_ it.”

Ray ignores the shiver that teases down his spine. “Are you still high?”

“Why would weed make me want to come here tonight?”

“So you’re naturally this creepy. Cool.”

Ryan just raises that eyebrow. The bait is wonderful and pretty, but he won’t bite.

Ray tries to breathe out. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“To see your scars.” Ryan advances another step. Ray realizes the only thing he can back up into now is a wall.

“I showed you mine,” Ryan adds. “It’s only fair.”

Ray shakes his head. 

“I need to know,” Ryan says quietly, in a gentler voice. “Just tell me. Then I’ll go. I swear.”

Ray stares at him, his entire being on fire; only a foot of space separates them, but the intensity of Ryan’s eyes is like a hand clamped onto his wrist. It holds him still—it traps him.

“Me,” he croaks. “Okay? I did it to myself.”

Ryan blinks in his version of surprise.

“Are you happy now?” Ray whispers. He doesn’t want to cry, but his body betrays him for the millionth time tonight as the edges of his vision blurs.

“Why, Ray?”

Ray shuts his eyes. Ryan’s voice is a gentle caress, as soothing as a hand on his back, or an embrace.

He hates it. He hates how much his body welcomes it.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“We already are.”

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Both.”

A tear spills over, and Ryan’s hand is there, warm and strong and soft, brushing it away. Ray wants to swat him away, to punch him, to beat Ryan for thinking he has the right to touch him—but he’s frozen.

“Do you hate yourself, Ray?” Ryan whispers. He’s standing so close that their bodies nearly touch. 

“I went through a rough patch, a long time ago.” Ray refuses to look at him. “It was nothing.”

Slowly, Ryan drags his gaze down Ray’s body to the hem of his shirt. His fingers toy with it, reminiscent of the bar earlier, except it’s too real now and Ray is in no way prepared for the shock of warmth as they slip beneath the fabric and onto his stomach. He nearly cries out when Ryan’s index fingers touches a scar, tracing it. Leaving a trail of fire along Ray’s skin.

Ray remembers this particular one well—that night, so long ago, and how he cut too deep in a fit of agony. How he almost fucking _died_.

How Ryan touches it now like he’s handling a piece of glass. Like Ray somehow _deserves_ a touch so gentle.

“It’s permanently etched onto your body,” Ryan says softly. “It’s definitely something.”

Ray feels like he’s about to combust. 

“You don’t have to talk about it. But at least let me see.”

He leans his head back so the crown of it touches the wall. He won’t win this. He knows that even better than Ryan.

“Fine,” he croaks.

So Ryan peels the shirt from him, except he prolongs it, practically having the fabric dance along Ray’s body—and even in that short time, Ray finds his heart pounding, his breath clipped and fast, as he stands naked from the waist up. Ryan hovers over him with his gaze scratching and burning Ray’s skin, before he lifts an entire hand to Ray’s stomach. 

Ray gasps at the contact.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathes, but he doesn’t stop. He explores all along the front of Ray’s body, even the unscarred bumps and ridges, his fingers leaving no marred inch of flesh untouched. Flames lick and bite wherever he goes in a blazing, aching wake. “How long was the rough patch?”

Ray doesn’t answer. If he opens his mouth, he’ll cry.

“How long, Ray?”

“Damnit, Ryan,” Ray whispers. “Why does it fucking _matter_?”

“Tell me,” Ryan says.

Ray chokes. “Years,” he manages.

Ryan’s fingers graze the freshest cut. “Christ,” he says again, breathless. 

Ray’s mind reaches back, in spite of his internal screams to stay grounded; he remembers the knife, alive on his flesh. He remembers the blood like it was yesterday.

God.

It _was_ fucking yesterday.

“You never answered me before. Do you hate yourself, Ray?”

“No,” Ray croaks. “God—I don’t fucking know. Maybe then, but not now. I just needed to feel something.”

And then, Ryan utters this _noise_ that makes Ray’s leg absolutely fucking _weak_. Ryan hitches forward and it’s like a proverbial push to Ray’s chest—because he’s _so sure_ that Ryan is going to kiss him. Even if he’s looking down. Even if his heart is like a rabbit racing in his throat.

“Look at me,” Ryan whispers hoarsely. 

Ray hesitates, and feels Ryan’s calloused fingertips lifting his chin up. 

They stand like that for the longest time, their gazes locked on one another as Ryan’s hand, still beneath Ray’s chin, slowly starts to stroke circles against Ray’s jaw. Every touch, every look from him, has Ray _drowning_. What used to infuriate him before now infatuates him, capturing and pinning him down, like a butterfly to a corkboard. It disgusts him—he disgusts _himself_. He knows full well what Ryan is and here he stands, practically shaking from Ryan’s nice, strong hands on him, hands that have choked the life out of people, hands that he _let_ on him.

Ray trembles. It isn’t fair; he’s too weak.

But, what’s worse is, he doesn’t know if he could ever pull away fully. He just doesn’t. Fucking. _Know._ When he thought Ryan was going to kiss him, he didn’t pull back. Granted, he didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t resist. His mind is walking one way while his body is walking the other.

Both of Ryan’s hands skim low on Ray’s body. They break Ray down further, so soft and comforting as they caress his waist.

“Stop,” Ray whispers without meaning to. Ryan just looks back up, his eyes boring into Ray’s. His hands stay at Ray’s hips.

“Pain is not the epitome of human existence, Ray,” he says quietly. 

The back of Ray’s throat dries; he can’t speak. All he feels are Ryan’s burning eyes and where their skin meets.

Slowly, Ryan lifts his hand from Ray’s waist to his face, where he dabs a tear with his thumb.

“I can’t give you much, Ray,” Ryan says softly. “I can’t tell you what to do with yourself or your life. But I’m sorry, Ray. I’m truly sorry.”

Ray freezes when he feels Ryan lean forward. He can almost feel Ryan’s lips on his—he swears he can taste the kiss already, but Ryan pauses just before contact, a longing look cast down at Ray’s mouth. Then he goes to the floor and retrieves Ray’s shirt, their arms brushing together in a long, lingering way that has goosebumps breaking out all over Ray.

When Ryan stands back up, their arms are still touching. He looks down at Ray with a dark fire smoldering in his eyes. 

“You should put this back on,” he says quietly.

Trembling, Ray takes it, avoiding any contact between their fingertips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, unsure of what else he can say. Ryan doesn’t answer.

Ray tugs his shirt back on, expecting Ryan to step aside, but instead Ryan stays rooted, his gaze still hot as it searches Ray’s face.

“What?”

Ryan leans forward, nearly giving Ray another heart attack, and breathes into his ear:

“ _Your body is more delectable than I could have ever imagined._ ”

Ray feels faint. Burning, he tries to pull away, but not before Ryan nips at his earlobe. Christ, is he messing with Ray’s head.

“You’re crazy,” he manages, but it sounds breathless and lost.

“Nah,” Ryan whispers. “Just high as fuck.”

At that, Ray barks out an astonished laugh. Ryan just smiles and kisses his forehead.

Later, when he’s alone and still awake at four AM, Ray can’t stop stroking his stomach—remembering the feel of Ryan’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three of the series is currently being underway. Once I have a good idea of when it's coming out, I'll update the series' information. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I looked it up the other day and evidently, there is in fact a name for a murder fetish: erotophonophilia. That even _sounds_ pleasant, doesn't it?


End file.
